


Notation

by Kyraimi



Category: Free!
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pianist!HaruxComposer!Mako, Rating May Change, so there's a plot now but please be warned: i still don't know where it's going, water is pretty much replaced by piano
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-18 11:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2347220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyraimi/pseuds/Kyraimi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The piano is alive. Once you begin to play, it will immediately surround and ensnare your fingers. But, there’s nothing to fear. Don’t resist the flowing notes. Thrust your fingers into the keys and carve a melody. Then you slide your hands up and down the instrument, following that melody. Moving your arms, your head, your chest... (pfft)</p><p>Or,</p><p>On his way home from a performance one night, successful pianist Haruka encounters a strange, green-eyed man who quickly flees and leaves behind scattered pages of a beautiful composition that piques Haruka's curiosity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Misterioso

_Misterioso—play with a secretive or mysterious character._

 

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

 

_The piano is alive. Once you begin to play, it will immediately surround and ensnare your fingers. But, there’s nothing to fear. Don’t resist the flowing notes. Thrust your fingers into the keys and carve a melody. Then you slide your hands up and down the instrument, following that melody. Moving your arms, your head, your chest..._

To Haruka, the piano was the most beautiful creation in the world. He could go for days living on just the feeling of the supple keys that acquiesced under his fingers, shy and inviting. The pleasing melodies that the instrument created, the flowing notes, both crisp and blending, and the unique timbre that flowed deep into his soul—Haruka couldn’t imagine ever living without it all. He lived in the careful notes carved into time from composers long ago, existing in sync with the euphonious music that resonated deep in his mind throughout morning, noon, and night.

When Haruka played, he felt the binds of reality loosen, setting him free into the pleasing chasm of content where he stayed, unhindered, until his songs ended. He could easily block out the spotlights and vast audiences by focusing on the movement of his fingers as they formed a trail away from the real world. Whether he was in a concert hall, a bright, raised stage, or the cold confines of his own almost-empty living room, Haru was content as long as he had a piano. Coaxing the notes from the instrument and freeing them into the static air—reverberating them until the atmosphere turned into a cacophony of dynamic breezes—never failed to raise his spirits whenever the dank darkness threatened to creep into his countenance.

These thoughts drifted around in Haruka’s mind as he walked up the steps to the biggest stage he’d ever performed on. He maintained the stoic composure he always assumed whenever he was away from his beloved piano, ignoring the roaring applause of the audience filling (and spilling from) the chamber. Haruka’s heartbeat remained a practiced, steady beat, completely unaffected by the pressure of the event and the expectations. He’d been through it before, and what did it really matter? The piano would never betray him, and certainly not in the moments of greatest need. The man’s light feet carried him to the piano, aided by the instrument’s magnetic pull.

Composed, Haruka sat down silently on the glossy piano bench, feeling the plush, luxurious cushion sink just an inch or two to accommodate his weight. He took in a deep breath, closing his eyes with a sigh as the smell of the carefully polished piano wood wafted into his nose. Haruka pushed down the non-existent wrinkles in his coat as the audience quieted to a silent nothingness just waiting to be filled with music. Eyes still closed, Haruka placed his fingers on the starting keys and bowed his head just so.

Then with a sudden breath, Haruka began. His fingers slammed down, forte, on the simple beginning notes, unconscious of how the entire audience jumped. Just as suddenly, he rolled the broken arpeggios that quieted down to a light piano and slowly sneaked in the melody's beautiful introduction.

The never-ending flow of notes jumped up and down the keys, weaving an intricate dance of twists and turns and frequent rubatos that laid the foundation for a unique rhythm bouncing throughout Haruka's entire body as he moved in tandem with the song's dance. Sharp accents highlighted the melody and changed their placement along with the shifting dynamics. The contrasting rhythms in the hands—triplets in the left, sixteenths in the right—played their own tunes in harmony with one another, combining their differences and working to craft a masterpiece that led into another section, and another, and another. Haruka’s fingers flew across the keyboard like the sea creatures that weaved throughout the oceans, loud and strong, soft and sad.

Without much warning the litany of notes came to a sudden pause and Haruka sucked in a gasp of breath. Then the notes fell, quickly down the keys, the left hand abandoning the right in its descent. And just as suddenly, they joined again, at the bottom of the deep fall, and rose to the highest part of the keyboard, this time to fall together, in tandem, with swift leaps that quickly outdistanced the small descent of the single right hand. The notes shouted a deep, desperate tune that gradually slowed and slowed…

Haruka played and the captivated audience played with him, entranced by the raw emotion displayed by the normally oh-so-stoic public front the quiet man always put up. Some slept, some thumb-twiddled, and some busied away on their electronic devices—an audience could never completely be engaged, after all—but the majority sat and beheld their famous performer. Some would later swear that they heard a slight creaking of the piano legs and a small, bubbling chuckle arising from the expensive instrument, as if it had come to life in that moment to share the performer’s joy.

Only those in the front rows could observe the true, relaxed content displayed on the soft, handsome features of Haruka Nanase—only few could watch the way his eyebrows, nested above his lightly shut eyelids, curved up and slanted down in peace near the edges. Even in the darkest, most dramatic parts of the varying melody, the eyebrows stayed, no matter how the rest of his countenance morphed in tandem with the music.

An eternity that felt far too short soon came to a close with the final pianississimo chords delivered with such an air that a feeling of peace, hope, and closure swept over all of those present in the auditorium. The audience dared not to breathe as the ethereal figure of their performer slowly rose his head. Only when those elegant fingers finally withdrew reluctantly from the piano keys did a thundering wave of awed applause erupt. Haruka rose from his seat and stepped towards the audience, giving a swift, absentminded bow. He stepped off the stage, the clacking of his dress shoes unheard over the still-roaring applause of the audience. The pianist cast a final glance back towards the snow-white piano he'd played on—it was a true beauty—and disappeared from the crowd’s view.

 

øØøØøØøØøØø

 

A few hours after the performance, Haruka stepped onto the winter streets of Iwatobi just outside of the building, exiting cautiously from the back door to avoid any eager newspaper reporters. He’d been harassed enough already—Nagisa Hazuki, the head manager of the performance hall, had kept Haruka back for a while to pelt a barrage of praises and excited questions at the introverted performer. He’d been invited to come back and play again at another event in the coming month. Haruka had replied with a somewhat agreeable maybe instead of his usual indecisive shrug (which his manager, Gou, had been quite surprised about), since the beautiful Steinway concert grand piano he’d played on at the hall had been a true work of art.

While Haruka contemplated the mechanics of fitting a concert grand piano in his apartment’s living room, he turned a corner into a dingy-looking alley, vaguely remembering a shortcut Gou told him about (before rushing off to collect Haruka’s performance paycheck and set up another event). The looming sides of the snowy alleyway buildings blocked the bright, full moon’s light, a fact which the indifferent pianist easily ignored as he contemplated the renovations necessary to add in that ivory Steinway.

Due to Haruka’s occupied thoughts, he almost didn’t spot the large figure huddled near an alleyway intersection. The only reason he did notice was the small whimper that came from the shaking form, too high-pitched to be mistaken for a passing wind. Pausing his stride, he turned his gaze to the source of the noise, sharp eyes using the limited moonlight to observe a young (albeit largely built) man, shivering and sans coat, leaned against a wall in the only spot without a snowdrift. What Haruka could observe, using the light peeking through the building rooftops, was a ragged individual donning tattered, undersized clothes.

The careful pianist made to turn and continue on his way, planning to leave the trembling figure behind, but his discreet footsteps seemed to have alerted the man of his presence. Haruka started as the coatless man’s head rose, and he froze completely when a startling emerald, teary-eyed gaze locked with his own. Even with his keen vision, Haruka couldn’t quite discern the exact features of the man’s face, but he could see the cold, flushed cheeks framed by a headful of scraggy olive-brown hair.

Those green eyes widened when they observed Haruka’s presence, and the man rose quickly. Alarmed, Haruka began to flee, but the green-eyed man had already beat him to it. Haruka heard the sound of quickly fading footsteps and turned to see that the man had completely disappeared. Then the moonlight caught the movement of some papers fluttering to the ground, appearing to have been left behind by the retreating figure.

Pushed forward by a sense of intrigue he couldn’t quite explain, Haruka bent down to pick up the paper, eyes widening slightly as he saw the five-lined bars and scattered musical notes scratched on the sheets in what appeared to be a pen running out of ink. It was surely an odd thing for the coatless man to have possessed. But the composition seemed to be written for piano—the treble and bass clefs were very clearly drawn in—and Haruka was curious. He looked down at the ground and found a few more scattered music sheets, some dispersed amongst the surrounding snowdrifts. Haruka carefully collected the papers, shaking off the snow that clung to some, a little bemused by his actions.

Shortly after, the pianist continued to head home, encountering no other stray people lurking in the alleyways, which, he supposed, was fortunate. Haruka wondered what Gou had been thinking, advising her “prized pianist” to take an alleyway shortcut. He also pondered over how she knew of the shortcut in the first place. Gou’s police officer brother, Rin, would definitely not be pleased to know that his little sister had been wandering around the dark and dangerous alleyways. Maybe Haruka would mention it in passing when he next saw his manager’s overprotective brother. He filed the thought away.

Glancing down at the papers clutched in his gloved hands, Haruka continued walking and let his mind wander to the curious subject of the odd encounter. The man hadn’t seemed like the kind who’d be out in the streets—though Haruka didn’t get a good look at him, his green eyes held a gentle (albeit tearful) gaze and he seemed timidly cultured, despite his rather pitiful state.

When Haruka finally returned to his apartment, his thoughts contained no trace of the beautiful Steinway piano.

 

øØøØøØøØøØø

 

The next morning was considerably warmer than the evening before, and Haruka awoke to the sound of melted snow flowing down through the gutters and dripping to the ground. The pianist groggily made his way to the kitchen to cook himself his usual breakfast of mackerel, as it was warm enough to forego his winter mornings’ hot bath. Not in the mood for human interaction, Haruka casually ignored the multitude of messages still lighting up the screen of his smartphone (which had been forced on him by Gou, just like his laptop, along with an unreasonably large number of social networking accounts).

After washing up with some warm water, the pianist headed towards the simple upright Yamaha piano nestled next to his living room’s fireplace and armchair. Haruka slowly opened the lid, breathing in the barely observable scent of aged wood. He glanced affectionately at the well-worn keys and settled down on the creaking bench, taking a deep breath and beginning with the simple tune of “Für Elise” as a calming warm-up. The melody resonated gracefully and filled the living room like it had so many times before. Haruka smiled softly and let his fingers dance, tracing through the song’s path with content confidence. The song passed quickly, like it always had, and Haruka ended the final, flowing notes as a sigh escaped from his upturned lips.

Fingers warmed, Haruka wondered what he should play today. His pieces for next weekend’s performances were well-reviewed and committed to heart already. The pianist didn’t like to repeat (most of) the songs he played too often—there were so many beautiful songs still waiting to be discovered.

While pondering, Haruka was abruptly hit with the memory of the music he’d found last night, left behind from the hasty departure of the green-eyed man. He glanced beneath the piano bench and found the papers stashed there neatly where he’d put them. Haruka was suddenly struck with a sense of guilt as he wondered what the coatless man would think when he’d discovered his missing papers… He’d seemed to have lost much already…

Subdued, Haruka observed the pilfered music sheets. They held intriguing notes arranged in unique ways that weren’t quite classical but also not modernly dissonant. He already had the sheets, Haruka mused, so it would be waste not to try playing the music. Setting the first few pages on his piano’s wiggly music stand, Haruka squinted at the precise but quickly marked notes on the somewhat uneven staffs and started his attempts to play.

The introduction flowed easily together, the left and right hands complementing each other far more beautifully than Haruka had expected. The rhythms were unique, and many triplets were added in, alternating in hands, notes, and harmonies. Many times, the professional pianist had to stop and carefully discern the multitude of difficult rhythms. Dynamic markings were hard to find, since they were squeezed in between the tightly compacted staffs—the composer seemed to be conserving as much paper as possible.

The beginning of the song passed through in this startling beautiful manner, reminiscent of a playful, rustling breeze, and throughout the entire section, Haruka was haunted by the singular memory of vivid viridian. He played, beginning to feel the flow, the rhythm, quicker than any other song he’d played before. And as he played, somehow, Haruka knew: that green-eyed man was the composer. There was no doubt.

Invigorated, the pianist continued to the next section, minor-keyed melodies singing their unique, soft tune. If the first section resembled a breeze, this section was the gentle snowfall on New Year’s Eve. Scatterings of crossed-out notes and unclear markings barely hindered Haruka—the notes flowed naturally, and he wondered incredulously how the song just seemed to be _made_ for him. The notes held certain romantic nostalgia, dug up buried memories of lovely childhood before the world had taken it away. This music—this lovely composition—crawled close to his chest, warming his center with the minor harmonies that faded away to a pianissimo, the diminuendo interspersed with casual rubatos.

The more Haruka played, the more strongly he felt awed disbelief. What was such a talented composer doing out on the streets on that cold winter night? The emotional melodies weaved into the composition could rival that of some of the most famous classical piano pieces, and the daringly modern additions only added to the song’s character. The stab of guilt Haruka felt grew even stronger, now that he knew just exactly how much this composition must have meant to that teary-eyed, coatless man. Even as he continued to play, captivated by the unique arrangement, Haruka promised himself to try and find the composer again.

Haruka played for an immeasurable amount of time, working his way slowly through the piece, trying his best to play it in the way that the music wanted to be conveyed. But then, as he finished up the second section, Haruka turned the page and—

—There were no pages left. A crashing wave of disappointment washed over the pianist as he slumped visibly in his seat. He knew he’d picked up all the pages in the area, so the green-eyed man must have been able to hold on to the rest. The urge to meet this composer grew even stronger. Haruka had never been so enraptured by a single piano song—especially not one messily scribbled on pen-made music staffs—but he was truly captured by it. Somehow the notes made his piano sound more rich than before, made the resonance flow around the room; it reached every dank corner, exposing everything and leaving nothing untouched.

Haruka had no idea how he would find that green-eyed man again. He would visit the alleyway again, of course, but there was no guarantee that he would be there—especially not after the fright Haruka’s appearance seemed to have caused him. The pianist could try and trace his tracks, as it had been a snowy alleyway—no, that wouldn’t work. Haruka glanced out his window at the warm, melted day with forlorn vexation. He didn’t even know the man’s name, and he could only give a barren description of his appearance.

Beginning to lose hope, Haruka turned back to the venerated music sheets, planning to play it some more and soothe his disappointment. But then, when he held the first page in his hands, Haruka saw, scribbled messily on the back, a single word.

_Makoto._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading~ ^v^ Please feel /Free!/ to leave a comment. :3
> 
> This is an AU I recently thought of when playing a certain piano piece (which will not yet be revealed). Somehow, the structure of the song seemed like it would make an interesting fanfic... Add in the fact that Haru is described to have graceful, elegant fingers, and bam! This AU was born. Be prepared for fluff ahead (even though they haven’t even spoken yet OTL)~
> 
> This is also my first attempt at writing Free! fanfiction, so I’m sorry for inaccuracies in characterization or anything else. 
> 
> If you want me to put more definitions of musical terms in the A/Ns, please tell me so and I'll do my best! ^^
> 
> Well, I’ll see how this goes!
> 
> Edit: I'm not sure if edits alert subscribers, so I'm sorry if it did! I just edited some scattered typos I found. (If you find any more, please tell me.)


	2. Inquieto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Haruka has a somber past, a plot appears (gasp)—sort of, and our two stars finally interact.

_Inquieto—play in a restless or anxious manner._

 

By the time Haruka had spent a satisfactory amount of time playing through mysterious Makoto’s intricately crafted piece, the sun had already begun its daily descent. Haruka’s attention was forcibly torn from the lovely music by a combination of his own loudly grumbling stomach and a persistent ringing of his rarely-used doorbell that _wouldn’t go away_. With a sigh, the pianist stood, carefully stored away the handwritten sheet music, and made his way to his door, wiping away the light sheen of sweat coating his brow.

Looking through the peephole, Haruka was greeted with the familiar sight of an angry red eye glaring right back at him. Pulling away, he reluctantly opened his door, turning the locks while keeping his body at a careful distance. The gust of warm-ish air brought in was accompanied by the familiar fury of his redheaded manager.

“Haruka-san! Why haven’t you answered my calls or messages?!” Gou demanded, pushing an accusing finger into the pianist’s face. “Use your phone for _communication_ , please! I don’t have time to barge over here all the time just to make sure you’re alive.”

 _Then don’t_ , Haruka thought insolently, then shrugged and backed away slightly to allow his manager to enter his apartment. He supposed that all those messages that morning had been of some importance, after all. Haruka often forgot to check his phone, but those instances rarely resulted in an in-person visit from the always-busy Gou. Said woman stood firmly in Haruka’s living room, eyeing the lone armchair next to the Yamaha piano and evidently deciding against seating herself in it.

“Why are you here?” Haruka asked quietly, fiddling around in his kitchen to pour Gou a cup of raspberry tea, her steadfast favorite. Gou sighed, putting her hand to her forehead, defeated. The pianist handed his manager the tea and she accepted it, beginning her answer after taking a long, indulgent sip that lightened the furrow in her brow.

“As you would’ve known already if you’d just _checked your phone_ , I have quite a bit of news,” she began, pacing back and forth in the small but spacious living room. “First of all, your performance last night was extremely successful; as you know, you’ve been invited back to the hall. I scheduled your next appearance for Hazuki Hall’s Christmas show around a month and a half from now.”

Haruka responded with a hum and a slight incline of his head, eyes brightening slightly at the prospect of performing on the white Steinway concert grand once more.

“Mr. Hazuki also commented that you’re welcome to practice on the Hall’s instruments whenever you’d like to,” Gou continued, smiling exasperatedly at Haruka’s resulting, eager nod. "We got a lot of other requests, too; seems like the critics liked your playing. You'll probably have two or three performances weekly—maybe even some recording sessions, if the Ryuugazaki Productions agent was serious—so be prepared."

"Okay."

"Next piece of news," Gou continued, expression darkening. "This is why I came today. It hasn't been released to the media yet, but Rin says they finally found where Tachibana was hiding."

Haruka's head snapped up, eyes widening. Hideki Tachibana was an infamous criminal, guilty of business-related crimes under the guise of a respectable, middle-aged businessman. More importantly, he was the escaped serial killer behind the international Musician Massacre that wracked the world almost exactly ten years ago... Haruka turned his head to glance at the lone frame on the mantel of his fireplace that showed a picture of a smiling, dark-haired couple standing behind an expressionless teen with dark hair just like theirs. The pictured man and woman, Haruka’s parents, had been musicians too, and they hadn’t escaped the Massacre.

“Where was he hiding?” asked the pianist with a low, quaking voice. “What are they doing with him now?”

“Rin can’t release any details, nor can the rest of the police,” Gou answered, apologetic. “The team found him in Ikebukuro, and I don’t know if they’ve actually caught him yet. Chances are that the slick eel is still evading capture.”

Haruka clenched his fist, moving his gaze to the glazed brick floor. Flashes of nightmare-esque memories assaulted the pianist, featuring thrown-up blood splattering the walls, hours of never-ending screams, and twisted, sagging faces of the two people who’d been his greatest support. Tachibana hadn’t just stabbed his victims or anything as crude as that, oh no—he’d used his own carefully crafted drug designed for maximal, prolonged suffering and minimal traces. It wasn’t until two years after the death of the final Massacre victims that the investigators finally found the identity of the culprit, and by then, he’d disappeared.

“Is he still…at large...?”

“No,” Gou answered, firmly. “Haruka-san, you know as well as I do that his final victims were—” here she paused abruptly and coughed, looking away guiltily from Haruka, “—um, no, there haven’t been any similar cases ever since.”

“That’s good,” mumbled the pianist, moving back to his Yamaha piano (the gift his parents gave him for his 11th birthday, only a few months before the—), sitting down and automatically pulling out scribbled sheet music from a crisp, bright green folder. He carefully set the papers on his stand, ignoring the quizzical look from his manager, and began to play.

As expected, the music provided a soothing, relieving, effect that provided much-needed distraction, cleansing Haruka’s thoughts of bloodied walls and inexplicably replacing them with faded images of natural greenery. Willow tree branches brushed past the pianist’s head as he played, feeling the music much better than during his first attempt. Haruka’s raw talent shone through the notes much like sunlight peeking through forest foliage; he seemed to be incapable of making any mistakes, carrying out the piece’s beginning with softly changing dynamics, full slurs, and light, twinkling trills.

Though Gou was used to hearing Haruka play and her awe had grown subtle, Haruka’s performance of this piece (which she had never heard before) seemed, somehow, stunningly different than his usual playing. The manager could feel the soulful expression more clearly than she had before. That extra expression could, perhaps, have been drawn out by the return of strong, painful memories—but if that were the case, shouldn’t the music feel more depressed? It shouldn’t be so tranquil, so alleviating—it shouldn’t relax her shoulders, shouldn’t ease creases in her brow.

Watching and listening, Gou allowed Haruka to continue the piece without any interruptions. It was rare that she ever saw the pianist upset, and this song clearly calmed him down, the peaceful, intricate melodies distracting him from unspeakable pasts. Gou wondered what song it was—though the melody induced a sense of nostalgia, she had never heard anything quite like it, which was quite rare for a musical manager such as herself. Was it a classical piece? No, a few of the measures Haruka just played contained rhythms developed in more recent years.

Abruptly, unjustly, Haruka stopped playing. The sudden silence shook Gou out of her dazed reverie. “Why did you stop playing?”

“I don’t have any more pages,” Haruka replied, sullen. Now that the music had stopped, the pressure in his chest returned. Flashes of faded smiles on bloodied lips intruded into his previously peaceful state of mind.

Gou raised an arched eyebrow. “What’s the piece called?” She stepped closer to inspect the score only to notice the untidy, pen-scrawled notes that raised both OCD-related discomfort and a large sense of curiosity. “Did you write this? Wow, I didn’t know you composed.” Gou’s eyes sparkled, prospects high.

“No, I didn’t.” Haruka replied curtly.

“Eh? Who did, then?”

Haruka was silent for a moment. “Do you know anyone named Makoto?” he finally asked. If anyone had a chance of knowing the mysterious composer, it would be his manager.

Gou furrowed her brows and answered with a negative. “But Haruka-san, who’s the composer of the piece? Is there any way I can contact them? This composition is something special,” the manager speculated, eye-sparkle still in place.

Haruka merely shrugged, mood plunging further, not saying any more. He flipped back to the first page and began playing again, somehow rather vehemently.

Sighing, Gou took her cue to leave.

 

øØøØøØøØøØø

 

A couple of days later found Haruka slinking out the back door of another performance hall, again to avoid the annoying interrogations of reporters. He trudged through the ankle-deep snow (that oddly warm day had been quickly followed by more snowfall), tired but calmly refreshed, and started the hours-long trek back to his apartment. Haruka had often been pushed to find a faster, safer way to travel through the city at night, but the pianist didn’t feel like listening. He enjoyed the whoosh of the cold wind that buffeted his exposed skin, the fluffy snow that compressed beneath his boots. The quiet solitude always soothed Haruka—the night was a careful companion who never presented any loud chatter or unwelcome contact. The ebony sky and radiant stars above him offered a picturesque canvas that always reminded Haruka of silence filled by high, twinkling notes.

Nighttime walks were always means of comfort that Haruka always gratefully accepted. The pianist admitted, however, that recently, he had a new reason for frequenting the more isolated cityscape of the night. The alleyways and abandoned parking lots had always been off-limits— _dangerous_ —but as he passed the impregnable darkness of shadowy alleys that night, Haruka felt a strong urge to investigate. He saw emerald eyes glinting in every shadow, heard _that song_ trickling out of every alleyway trashcan. Sometimes a flutter of white, pen-marked paper would pass the corner of his vision, but each time he turned, Haruka saw only monotonous snow. He clutched tighter at the green folder cradled reverently against his chest, the folder containing Makoto’s song, which he’d brought on odd impulse.

The same odd impulse brought Haruka to a bewildered halt in front of a particular alleyway between a clothing store and a ramen restaurant (both of which he coincidentally frequented) close to his apartment. Quietly turning into the tenebrous space, cautious footsteps slow and snow-muffled, Haruka could’ve sworn that he heard a sob-wracked voice humming the melody of _that song_. Heart racing, unbelieving, he noiselessly approached the sound’s source.

Haruka had always been good at seeing in the dark, and his quickly-dilated pupils proved this fact steadily, bringing the large silhouette of a familiarly shaking figure into view. Haruka froze to the spot with shocked jubilation, hoping that this wasn’t a dream, scrambling desperately for his next plan of action, clutching the green folder even tighter. Somehow, merely days later, he’d found Makoto again, and he wasn’t going to let this chance escape. But as he took another step, his foot crunched on a metal can, the loud sound cracking through the air, and Makoto’s head snapped up, green, green eyes widening with the same fear as that night and no, no, _no_ , he _wasn’t_ going to let him go this time—

“Wait!” Haruka cried, desperate and not knowing why, surging towards the man who had already jumped up, ready to flee. “Please, don’t run!” He was sprinting already, vanishing into the blanketing darkness, and Haruka chased after him, snow flying everywhere, even as his rational mind warned against it, alerting him of the obvious danger. “ _Makoto_!”

And miraculously, Makoto stopped, turning so abruptly that the stumbling pianist almost crashed straight into his chest. “Makoto,” Haruka repeated, gulping in breaths of ice-cold air, backing away slightly and looking straight into the verdant eyes that had haunted him so much these past few days.

His surge of adrenaline passed, and those tear-stained eyes pierced straight through him, eliciting unbidden panic that blocked any rational thought Haruka could’ve had at that moment. He shouldn’t have tried to stop him, why did he do it anyways, Haruka never tried overmuch to interact with anyone before, why now, how did he know Makoto wasn’t an insane hobo, it was _just a song_ —

But it wasn’t _just a song_ , and as the pianist looked at Makoto more, there was no way he could be an insane hobo. No insane hobo could have such gentle, tear-stained eyes, such a puppy-like expression of shock, such _cute_ cold-flushed cheeks—but these thoughts only made Haruka question his own sanity, because did he just think of this large, disheveled man who towered over him being _puppy-like_ and _cute_?

“W-who... who are you?” asked Makoto, voice hoarse but inexplicably sweet. The man (still coatless, Haruka noted, and definitely shivering), began to back away, unnerved. “H-how do you know my name?” Makoto’s brows furrowed. _Cute_ , Haruka thought again, then mentally slapped himself. Shaking himself out of a brief reverie induced by odd, not-quite-sane thoughts of the _cuteness_ , of all things, Makoto seemed to exude, Haruka deemed it necessary to respond before the man ran away again.

“I found— when you— couple of days ago,” Haruka fumbled elegantly. Trying again, cheeks a little warm, he started, “You ran away from me before and dropped some papers.” Haruka coughed, wishing for once that he didn’t sound so rude and succinct, opening his green folder and delicately holding up the first page, then turning it to show the _Makoto_ scrawled on the back to explain his knowledge of the man’s name. Makoto clearly recognized the paper, emerald eyes widening with wonder and relief.

“Yes, t-that’s mine,” Makoto affirmed, clearly joyous, reaching out to take the paper, then hesitating, hovering his hand in the air. “I thought I’d lost it for sure. Thank you for getting it for me, uh…” Makoto wiped away his tears and glanced at Haruka expectantly, waiting for his name. Haruka stared back incredulously. Weren’t they in a dark, snowy alleyway, Makoto sans coat? The man’s quick switch in behavior made it seem like they were in a university and Haruka had simply found his notebook in a classroom, or something of the like— Haruka was mystified.

Haruka shook himself for the _n_ th time that evening and replied, “Haruka Nanase,” unsure why he gave out his full name so readily. Oddly, Makoto froze at his last name, but then quickly recovered and continued speaking.

“Thank you, Nanase-san,” Makoto finished, smiling a shaky, angel-esque smile and tilting his head, and Haruka _did not_ just melt. Lowering his gaze, Haruka grunted in response and reluctantly handed the music to its original composer (he’d memorized it already, thankfully, and made copies of it, just in case). Peering up again when the music was accepted, Haruka noticed a grim, agonized expression mar Makoto’s handsome features—the same expression he had when Haruka first saw him. As Makoto turned to leave with a quiet _Thank you, good bye_ , Haruka felt desperate panic surface again.

“I played your piece,” he divulged, loudly—too loudly. He felt soft relief when the man stopped and turned again. “It was, uh, it was good.” Good? _Good_? Just _good_?! Idiot, idiot, idiot— Haruka cleared his throat. “It was—beautiful,” he corrected himself, “really amazing. You’re a great composer.” A whisper of something odd followed this praise, and Haruka thought he could pick out _pianist too… just like…_ but it was probably just a gust of wind. Makoto was too far away for his expression to be visible, but Haruka could pick out the tilt of his head that accompanied the green-eyed man’s shaky reply of “Thank you!”

Stepping closer to Makoto again, Haruka was assaulted by an erratic whim. “If you— if you want, you could come back to my apartment,” the pianist blurted. “It’s not far from here, only about five minutes to walk; you could shower, get warm, I have some coats you could use—” the words kept on spilling, Haruka unable to stop them— “I can make some food. You can stay for a little, there’s a spare fuuton in the closet, and I have a piano, so—” _what was he thinking_ —

“Ah, no, no, I’m fine, thank you,” Makoto hastily replied, green eyes full of subdued hope and longing, and Haruka’s confused mind was set. “That’s really kind of you, but I don’t want to impose.” He turned again, but this time Haruka gently grabbed his (broad, firm) shoulder, not letting him walk off. Makoto jumped with a squeak.

“I insist,” Haruka asserted, hand still on Makoto’s surprisingly warm shoulder. “It’ll be no trouble, because I live alone anyways, and I want to play the rest of your song, so… Please come.”

“Really, it’s fine, I have somewhere to sleep, I can manage—” but Makoto’s weak protests were interrupted by an intense shiver that wracked his whole body, and Haru’s knees almost buckled at the agonized expression on the man’s face. Makoto crumpled, but Haruka quickly caught his fall, draping Makoto’s arm around his shoulder and holding up his considerable weight.

“You’re not fine,” Haruka muttered, still not sure why he was going to bring a dirty, disheveled, large, homeless man back to his apartment, not sure why he was voluntarily allowing someone to intrude into his privacy, not sure why he felt such a strong sense of absolute _trust_ towards Makoto. They trudged through the snow to Haruka’s apartment, slow but steady, and Makoto was too weak to protest.

When they finally reached their destination, Haruka fumbled with his keys and opened his door to the warm air of his apartment (in which the heater was turned on by Haruka’s convenient wifi AC controller when he left the performance hall). The pianist gently set the barely-conscious Makoto on his armchair, turned on the fireplace, and hastily went to ready a bath for his new guest. As Haruka waited for the water to warm, he wondered why the thought of Makoto’s presence in his living room gave him such a strong feeling of reassurance—why his apartment felt more like home _now_ , intruded by a stranger from an alleyway, than when in the prized state of solitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! ^v^ I didn't expect this story to get such a positive response— thank you so much, everyone!
> 
> So, the appearance of this plot is pretty much the byproduct of too many Agatha Christie novels.... *sweatdrops* There will be fluff as promised, but there will also be angst, so just a warning (and an apology), my lovely readers. (I hope I don't lose too many of you... I'm really sorry if this disappoints...)
> 
> Apologies if anyone's confused on the serial killer thing. It's Makoto's dad (whom I conveniently named Hideki). More will be revealed soon, so stay tuned~
> 
> Again, feel /Free!/ to leave a comment~


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